CHORAL HYMN.
STROPHE I.
Thy dire disasters, unexampled wrongs,
I weep, Prometheus.
From its soft founts distilled the flowing tear
My cheek bedashes.
’Tis hard, most hard! By self-made laws Jove rules,
And ’gainst the host of primal gods he points
The lordly spear.
ANTISTROPHE I.
With echoing groans the ambient waste bewails